


Betrayal of Interest

by valderys



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Alternate Universe, Harlequin, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-21
Updated: 2010-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-06 12:52:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Performing cybersurgery for Space Command, Dr Kerr Avon provided new memories and identities for agents both for and against the authorities.  But someone wanted to infiltrate the rebels – and now he was in jeopardy.  His only hope rested on the too-broad shoulders of Captain Roj Blake – the one man he thought he'd never see again.  Suddenly it became clear that Avon was the pawn in a treasonous conspiracy – and as the danger around him escalated, he discovered he could no longer resist his sexy protector…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Betrayal of Interest

**Author's Note:**

> Written for blakfancier's Harlequin Challenge in 2006.

"Get out," said Avon, a split second after he looked up and absorbed exactly who had pushed the door open with its usual soft shushing sound.

That was all it took. He didn't need another lecture from Captain Roj Blake, he didn't feel like responding to yet another argument - and he certainly didn't require another warning. There was no such thing as rich enough in Kerr Avon's world, particularly with Anna's expensive tastes draining his resources, and as he calmly continued preparing the blank brain prints ready for tomorrow's scans, he wondered what Blake would offer this time. Whether it would be even remotely worth listening to, or whether it would be the usual seditious drivel, together with his melodramatic fears for Avon's life. Unlikely to be anything else, really, on previous experience. Pity.

"You have to listen sometime."

Blake's voice was quiet this time, a deep rumble. Almost a pleasant change. Avon felt the difference, and looked up, his shoulders twitching, as though an unseen sniper was attempting to aim a shot. Perhaps it was the faint note of regret in Blake's tone. That was new.

"No. I don't. But your continued interest in my private affairs could be considered harassment. Is that the danger you keep talking about? That one day I will succumb to your idle delusions."

He was proud of that. Blake worried too much.

"I can hope."

Avon continued to put the brain prints mechanically away as he listened to Blake's heavy footsteps coming closer, the material of his Space Captain's uniform rustling as he walked. Avon stopped himself taking a step back by sheer willpower, as Blake stopped just inside his comfort zone.

"I wanted to say goodbye," Blake said, as Avon touched his fingers together to stop them twitching. He sounded regretful and sad. "I'm leaving, and I wanted to ask you one more time, if you would leave too."

"Are you insane?" Avon almost laughed, "Why would I leave my successful practice – where I'm making more money than I, or even Anna, can spend, by the way – for a life spent on the run, doing hole-in-the-wall butchery, instead of the surgery I've been training my whole life for? It's happened. You've finally gone insane. It's sad really – an almost brilliant mind wasted."

But the insults lacked his usual bite. Even Blake could sense that. Blake sighed heavily instead, and rested a heavy palm on Avon's shoulder. It almost made him flinch, but he refused to bow down to Blake's petty attempts to rattle him. Blake was wrong. That was all. Wrong. The plan was working, and in six months, a year at the most, Avon would be so rich no-one could touch him. How could Blake ask him to give up all that up now?

"Goodbye, Avon," Blake said softly, before he turned and left.

What Blake asked was unreasonable. He was in no danger. And Avon ignored the still small voice that whispered to him not to let Blake go.

***

"Cally's bringing another one over later," Vila said, his chatter washing over Avon like a soothing tide. He nodded to him absently, even as he concentrated on the scan in front of him, the patient's brain print appearing as the usual pattern of bright rainbows.

"Do you want me for the usual?" Vila asked, and Avon realised he meant as his assistant for the surgery - Vila was up to his eyeballs in the scam, regularly acted as his nurse, and got a hefty kick-back for it too.

Avon curled his lip. This was a simple memory erasure of a set number of days. Child's play really. He certainly didn't need Vila for an operation this basic, but Avon only shook his head. One of the most reliable things about Vila was his greed, one could almost say that it matched Avon's own.

He stared down at the representation of the brain print before him. Something wasn't right…

"Vila, set up the image remorphiser – there's an anomaly here I want to check."

Strange really – this was only the print of a minor bureaucrat, Bercol by name. Space Command only wanted him vetting, or so they said. Routine. Completely routine. And yet…

Could Blake be right? The icy jolt Avon got at that thought, nearly made his hands shake, and he folded them together in sudden panic. Fury filled him that he was even worried the stupid concerns Blake had tried to impress upon him might have an ounce of truth. Where was Blake now? He'd left Space Command – deserted! – with his pursuit ship, and was no doubt shot down by now. Pretty particles across some obscure corner of vacuum, and no more. It was absurd that he should even think of that with something like a pang.

Blake couldn't possibly be right. The scheme was foolproof. Avon had covered all the loopholes himself. Blanking the important sections of a rebel's memories, just before they went off to do whatever dangerous and stupid things they did, that was easy. Blanking his own involvement in their memory went beyond obvious. There was no way anyone would even be able to tell they had been tampered with – his work was the best! And for the money the Freedom Party was paying him… It was worth it. It was all worth it.

And yet, this anomaly in Bercol's pattern… Only a cybersurgeon of his skill would have been able to see anything was wrong at all.

He stared into the remorphiser, trying to see what had disturbed him so. There. That was a scar. Expert work, no doubt, but definitely a scar. The work was so good. Who could it possibly be? No-one but the great Kerr Avon would have even picked up on such a slight imperfection, but it bothered him. No doubt about it.

He quickly checked the records again, even as Vila frowned beside him, forehead wrinkling. Avon didn't have the patience, or the time, to spare for Vila right now. Bercol, Bercol… He worked for Central Security. In a menial capacity, or so they claimed. He was changing divisions – which wasn't unheard of. But why this shadow – this scar…

Suddenly, Avon went cold. His hands became clammy and he cradled them protectively to his chest. They'd start with his hands, he knew they would. It would break him most effectively. Any threat to his perfect, essential hands… How much time would they give him? How much did they want to know before they struck? It was obvious now, that Blake was right. Oh, Blake! If he hadn't been more scared in that white instant than he'd ever been in his life, then Avon would have cursed the man. Cursed the fact that it was Blake's contacts with the rebels that had ever tempted him in the first place. That it was really Blake's fault that he was in this position now.

The shadow on the print could only have been the work of one man. Older than Avon, he'd been a legend when Avon had been studying, and then he'd dropped out of sight. Rumour had it that he'd been 'acquired' by Central Security, to do top secret work on agents, and important criminals, and the highest level traitors, but it had never been proved. It hadn't really needed to be. Docholli had never been seen again. Until now. This work could only be his. No-one else was good enough. And that meant…

Well, it might mean nothing. Or it could mean everything. That they were watching him. That they were sending in Bercol to sample his own work. That Bercol was an agent himself, with a carefully hidden agenda. He would need to visit several times, after all, to complete all the ridiculous requirements for vetting that Space Command demanded. He was obviously a spy. But what the hell could Avon do about it?

Then another logical conclusion stopped him cold. If they knew, if they'd been watching him - trying to get more fish in their net before they reeled him in - then anyone could be a spy. Anyone at all. Avon glanced sidelong at Vila, who was still wrinkling his nose at the newly enhanced brain print. Anyone could be an agent after being worked on by Docholli. And they wouldn't even know it.

Trying to be casual, Avon shut down the machine, and brushed off Vila's protests at the interrupted work, pleading a headache. It felt thin to him, as excuses went, and he was more than usually brusque with Vila's stupid jokes, but that at least, felt real.

He had to go home. He had to think about this. There must be something that he could do.

***

Panting, his breath moving harshly in his throat, Avon wedged himself in the alcove and was glad. Breath pushing in and out meant that he wasn't dead. Yet. The alcove meant that he was wedged in enough that he wouldn't fall over. These were good things. He tried not to think about the blood dripping down his side from the blaster shot that had been close, but not quite close enough. It wasn't that bad anyway, the wound was mostly cauterised, and the wave of dizziness that accompanied the thought only gave the lie to that a little. He wasn't dying. Probably.

And he had the exit visas. That was all that was really important. The money was already sent in a hundred untraceable ways to off-planet accounts. The Vandor Confederacy was a useful tax haven, and would make an even better bolt-hole now he had the means to be able to join it. They would have a proper appreciation of his skill on Vandor – and if not Vandor then there was always XK-72. Hardly the lap of luxury, but they could offer him a solid research position, at the very least…

His hand pressed to his side, Avon smiled mirthlessly. What was he doing? Why was he worrying about research positions when he couldn't even manage to buy his exit visas without being shot at? At least there were no witnesses. None left alive anyway. And he smiled again, in a futile attempt to fool himself into believing that killing a man was as easy as surgery, as necessary a task as wielding a laser scalpel. Although his roiling stomach told him otherwise.

All he needed to do was meet Anna at the rendezvous, and then they could both escape, and they'd be so rich no-one could touch them…

The sound from the corridor had him squeezing into the alcove even more, and laughing soundlessly at himself for his fear. It was something of an anticlimax when Vila's round and worried face hoved into view, and enough of a relief that Avon could snap at him easily, but he was too tired and in too much pain to argue when Vila threw a concealing jacket around his shoulders, thrust a bottle in his hand and then proceeded to help him home whilst singing loudly about the proclivities of a young lady from Teal. It was an effective cover, Avon had to give him that. He was dizzy enough that the feel of Vila's strong arm around his shoulders made him unspeakably, frustratedly grateful, and put his suspicions of the man into perspective. Frankly, if Vila was a spy, it was a moot point by now, given the blood he could feel oozing down his side.

So it was acceptable to blame blood loss and shock for the time it took for him to notice that Vila wasn't steering him home at all. Vila's too loud, slightly off-key singing covered any protests he tried to make, and the one time he tried his rapidly dwindling strength to break free, Vila clutched at him so hard that Vila's arm slipped until he ended up hugging the blaster wound. The resultant pain of that nearly made Avon pass out, and he stopped any more overt action in favour of watching for a more likely chance at escape. He ignored his more logical self, which was arguing that his judgement was obviously completely skewed, if he could see any hope here at all.

Vila took him to the edge of Gamma sector M-8, and half-dragged him down some steps to a sub-level, where the only thing to think then was that Vila was either a very strange sort of spy, or there were wheels within wheels, and Avon was nowhere near to figuring them all of them out. That annoyed him more than he thought was reasonable.

He tried for nonchalance, and probably got pompous, but at least he kept the surprise out of his voice, when he leant against the wall, and said, "Hello, Blake."

It was a pity that he spoilt it then by passing out.

***

"Where am I?" Avon demanded, an indeterminate amount of time later, hoping that a cliché or two could be forgiven in the circumstances. He pushed himself up in the bed, and tried to remember.

He recalled movement, and bright lights, and being too hot and too cold. He remembered Blake bending over him, and the potential satisfaction of having thrown up, possibly onto his shoes. It was the only even mildly tolerable thing about this host of indignities, this unacceptable state of affairs that had apparently become his life.

"What?" he tried, "I hope you're happy now – it seems an expensive way to prove yourself right, but I'm sure you can still enjoy it."

The sneer was feeble, and they both knew it; Avon turned his face away then, unable to bear the compassion on Blake's face, and hating himself for his own weakness.

"We thought the operation had been compromised, Avon. Remember? I did try and tell you - it's why I left when I did. You don't think I deserted for fun, do you? I was far more use to the Freedom Party as a captain in Space Command, than just one more rebel on the run."

"So why come back? Your precious skin is in far more danger than anything of mine."

There was silence at that and Avon had to look at Blake. Had to, although he knew he was going to regret it. The guilt on Blake's face was familiar and yet horribly alien, when directed at himself.

"What is it, Blake?" he asked, quite unable to resist, despite realising with a sick certainty, that he didn't really want to know.

"It's… Anna. We didn't get to her in time. She wasn't at home, and by the time our agent found out where she was, it was too late. They have her, Avon – or they did. I'm very sorry."

Blake was using the past tense. That was all Avon could think about. Using the past tense and staring at him with the sort of compassion that Avon associated with mawkish viscasts or… A sudden wave of dizziness swamped him, and he bared his teeth as he fought it – what Blake was saying couldn't possibly be true – Anna would be fine. This mistake would be sorted out, and they would be rich, and… But he hated self-delusion in others, and he refused to be a party to it in himself. He knew what would happen as Central Security attempted to wring out of Anna what they couldn't get from him – as they attempted to retrieve data she didn't have. She'd be lucky if her mind was whole at the end of it, but somehow he doubted they'd let Docholli rebuild her. Even if he did, she wouldn't be his Anna any more. And he wouldn't be able to trust her, he wouldn't be able to trust what they could put into her mind.

Heat burned suddenly at his shoulder, a tense comforting pressure, and his eyes flew open. Eyes he hadn't even realised he'd closed. Blake was squeezing his shoulder, and his hand felt warm and vital. Avon thought he must be in shock for such a small contact to feel so heavy, and yet so alive. He had a ridiculous urge to lean into the warmth, to thank Blake for his life. For his care. For…

And then he shrugged him off. It was Blake's fault. If his people had gone after Anna in the first place, she might yet still be… It was Blake's fault.

Avon didn't let himself think about what he really wanted – how Blake's solid warmth had made him feel. That was not an acceptable solution to the problem. He couldn't let Anna's sacrifice mean so little. And he ignored the whisper that argued he had always had these feelings, that Anna may have had the wit and the sophistication to excite and impress him, that Anna had wrapped herself around his life like an exotic climbing plant, but that it had been Blake, with his ridiculous ideals, and his stupid recklessness, that had touched him in far more impossible ways.

But that didn't change things as they stood. Guilt could still be turned into purpose, even if Avon now realised this sudden awareness would haunt him for the rest of his life. He may have understood, now it was too late, exactly how little Anna had really meant to him, but that didn't alter what he wanted to do. Needed to do.

"You have a plan," Avon snapped, turning to Blake abruptly, "You always do. What is it?"

Blake was looking startled. Well now, Avon thought, with a certain amount of vicious satisfaction, this is what Blake thought he wanted. It will be interesting to see if what he actually gets bears any resemblance to it at all.

"I have my pursuit ship," Blake offered, tentatively, obviously still feeling his way through the abrupt changes in conversation. "And I was wondering… I hoped… I asked you once before, Avon, if you would leave before it was too late. I think perhaps I was wrong when I asked you that. I think that what I should instead have asked you was – would you come with me?"

Avon stared at him, a little blankly. Surely Blake realised he would want revenge? That Avon planned to hit back as hard as possible at the very authorities who believed they could ruin his life with impunity? But, instead, Blake apparently thought a personal appeal was required. How very like him!

"The invitation is less flattering, Blake, when there is nowhere left to go," Avon said, a touch bitterly, throwing aside the sheet, and preparing to stand. Blake was still staring at him with those sad eyes. It was unbearable. Grudgingly, he added, "But I suppose I could be persuaded to do the only sensible thing to ensure my own survival – provided…" And he held up one finger as Blake began to speak, "Provided that survival is a remotely long term proposition. We'll need more than one pursuit ship."

Blake looked ridiculously hopeful. It was sad really. Avon ignored the stupid leap in his chest, and watched as Blake appeared to ponder the matter. Blake thinking logically was also a rather unique state of affairs.

"It's a bit of a long shot," said Blake, slowly, "But I've heard rumours of a space battle where we might be able to pick up a larger, more powerful vessel. The pickings after any alien conflict are always worthwhile, you know."

"And I suppose you'll want to call it something pathetically sentimental, like 'A Call to Arms' or 'Liberator', or something equally ridiculous, I suppose?"

Blake shrugged helplessly, but his eyes were brighter than before. That wretched compassion he couldn't help but spill everywhere was apparently being replaced with amusement. And that was an extremely good thing. Avon let out a silent breath of relief. This would work. They would make it work.

"I'm not going to argue with you over the merits of naming a hypothetical ship, Avon."

And Avon smiled. There were much better arguments they could be having. He hadn't even begun to explain to Blake the kinds of fun they could have with the memories and information he could pull from a basic brain print. Not to mention the chaos he could cause with reprogramming. He wondered how Blake's morals would stand up to even a tenth of the ideas Avon could think of.

He reached forward and grasped Blake's arm, levering himself away from the bed and into the future.

"Let's be clear about this, Blake. If we're going to jaunt about the cosmos like intergalactic vagabonds, with none of the trappings of luxury and wealth that I was expecting, then at the very _least_ I demand a decent medical bay…"

**Author's Note:**

> And for those who are interested, this is the book that I chose the plot from, a Harlequin Intrigue title:
> 
> **Person of Interest** \- by Debra Webb  
> Performing facial reconstruction surgeries for the CIA, Dr. Elizabeth Cameron provided new identities for agents whose covers had been blown. But someone wanted one in particular dead — and now she was in jeopardy.
> 
> Her only hope rested on the too-broad shoulders of Agent Joe Hennessy — the one man she swore never to set eyes on again.
> 
> Suddenly it became clear that Elizabeth was the pawn in a treasonous conspiracy — and as the danger around her escalated, she could no longer resist her sexy protector....


End file.
